
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/622454.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Star_Trek:_The_Next_Generation
  Relationship:
      Wesley_Crusher/William_Riker
  Character:
      Wesley_Crusher, William_Riker
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-01-03 Words: 2275
****** Size ******
by objectlesson
Summary
     Wes trained himself to like it. Now he doesn’t know how to stop.
Notes
     More proof something is wrong with me and I’m going to hell. My
     original idea with this pairing was to really push the (canonically,
     nonexistent) complexity of Riker’s character. Wes was just going to
     be the unfortunate engenue. Weirdly enough, though, he ended up being
     the one I started really gravitating towards. (In spite of my
     enormous and rather revolting affection for Riker.) I don’t own them
     and God, this never, ever happened. They have like, four scenes
     together in the whole show.
Riker is huge. An immense presence, wide and heavy and hot and overwhelming,
oppressive as he holds Wesley to the broad expanse of his chest. Riker’s facial
hair scrapes against the softness of his Wesley’s young cheeks, and his tongue
is deep in Wesley’s mouth, swirling deeper still, stealing his breath. It’s too
much. Everything hurts. Wesley knows he couldn’t escape from Riker’s mass, even
if he tried, even if he wanted to. His fists flutter open and closed behind
Riker’s thick neck and his ears pound with heartbeat and the wet sounds of
their kissing.
Wesley wonders, briefly, if he’ll ever feel this consumed again. When this,
whatever it is, with Commander Riker ends and he joins starfleet, makes friends
his own age at the Academy, starts dating girls...if everything will pale in
comparison due to its inability to be too much. To hurt enough. Wesley wonders
if every other human after Riker will feel too small. If this is ruining him,
or making him.
Riker presses enormous palms against the bones in Wesley’s back, so hard Wesley
can’t expand his ribcage all the way. He struggles instinctively from
claustrophobia, kissing back because it’s what he’s been trained to do, a white
whir of vague panic setting into him. It always does. He always worries he’ll
suffocate, choke to death under Riker’s immense body, around the thickness of
his cock, the mouthful after mouthful of seed he’ll swallow. He always survives
though, survives and finds himself with a shameful burn in his cheeks as he
touches himself to memories of asphyxiation and ice blue eyes cutting into him
with the power of enormity. Survives and finds himself wanting it, back again,
on his knees and hands shaking as they brace against the certainty of Riker’s
thighs.
Static clouds his vision and tears sting his eyes, just as Riker pulls away and
they both gasp in air. The world materializes around Wesley. First Officer’s
quarters. Mahogany desk table. Pale green upholstery. Windows to the stars,
bits of light stuck in endless, endless black. Going on forever infinitely in
all directions, enough to freeze them, pressurize them to dust. His knees
almost buckle, and he tightens fists in the front of Commander Riker’s red
nylon starfleet uniform.
“Up,” Riker says firmly, hands closing over the bones in Wesley’s wrists,
making them feel impossibly small, breakable, dust, stars. Wesley’s stomach
plummets, because in teaching himself how to like this, he managed to forgot
how to not want it. Head down, he watches his own hips ripple and cant up into
Riker’s, small and desperate in the frame of something so much wider. His
breath gasps out of him, is sucked into Riker’s lungs. “You alright ensign?”
Riker asks.
“Yes Commander” Wesley’s voice is hoarse, sounding wet and animal in its
desperation. Riker combs his great, guiding hand through the back of Wesley’s
hair, tilts his head back, outlines his lips with the tip of his tongue before
crushing them beneath the pressure of his teeth.
“Mm. So fucking pretty,” He rumbles, eyes bright and burning. Wesley forgets
that blue is not the color of fire.
Every time the harshness of the word fuck and all its various forms slides out
of his commanding officer in that easy, gravel-rough voice, Wesley’s stomach
lurches around a sickening rope of arousal which makes him weak, small,
consumed. He is dizzy when he says, “What do you want me to do?”
The words are small, scared, shaky. Riker bites at the corner of his mouth,
drags one hand down the length of Wesley’ spine and stops to grip his ass, the
force of it lifting him up onto the balls of his feet. Then Riker’s hand is
groping beneath the elastic waistband of his silver uniform slacks, a hot
fingers prodding between the sweat-damp crease of his ass cheeks, nudging
against his hole. “Want you on your knees, Ensign. After I’m done feeling you,”
Riker orders, pressing against resistant muscle, easing his way in as Wesley
relaxes, because he figured out that it didn’t hurt if he just relaxed.
Riker is inside of him, and he wants him there, and doesn’t remember a time
when he didn’t, even though he knows it existed. His cheeks feel hot, feverish.
There is a rearing sickness in his stomach longing for memory he has lost. He
was so young when this started that he didn’t know what he wanted, not exactly,
anyway, not with articulation, with the genius his infant, stupid self thought
permeated every inch of him and made him invulnerable.
He wanted Riker, certainly, some part of him at least. To be like him, to be
him, to be his...but not necessarily to hold the enormity of him in his own
body. Wesley was fifteen then, and a young, lonely, inexperienced fifteen at
that. He doesn’t think the fifteen year old version of himself with his
schoolboy crush on his commanding officer knew what that even meant, what
vastness his body was capable of holding.
His ass opens right up for Riker, his knees bend and his back arches, his eyes
slide shut and his breath huffs out of him. He knows what he looks like right
now, the sweep of his dark lashes against the plushness of his cheeks, the
deepening pink of his ears, his throat, his face. Narrow, bent, a violin bow in
the crook of a man’s arm. The idea of all of that, his disarray and
helplessness and incredible, incredible smallness all lost to the mass that is
Riker, Riker’s strength and Riker’s power, makes his cock throb against the
seam of his pants, sticky, wet, dripping, heavy with blood. Riker crooks his
finger, adds another.
“Commander,” Wesley says thickly, mindlessly. He pushes himself further onto
Riker’s fingers, knowing his insides are velveteen and infernal and what Riker
wants, what Riker is risking everything for. Wesley wants to give him what he
wants. He doesn’t want to be ambivalent, because he wants to be worth the risk.
He wants this all to be worth it.
Riker’s breath catches; he mouths hungrily and without destination along the
line of Wesley’s jaw. “If I didn’t want your mouth on my cock, I’d take you
just like this,” he growls into Wesley’s ear, breath hot and explosive because
he’s not as in control of this as either of them like to pretend. “I’d finger
you until you came all over my stomach. You feel so fucking good inside. Can’t
stop touching you.” The words are rushed, lost, thundering with want. Riker is
as much a mess as Wesley is, and it’s both terrifying and arousing. Like a bull
in a china shop, the sheer force of Riker’s want will kill Wesley, shatter him
to glittering bits that imbed themselves under Riker’s hide, slicking his vast,
muscled self with sticky blood.
Wesley’s dick twitches, almost painful in its heat, its weight. “Please,” he
mumbles, cocking his head to the side so Riker can tongue fuck his mouth again.
He endures it for a few seconds, until his legs start quaking and he can’t
imagine standing under all this pressure any longer. He pulls away, lips lewd
and red around the words, “let me suck you off, Commander.” His mouth is full
of spit, which he swallows.
Riker releases him, and it feels like being born. All of the heavy, oppressive
warmth of being wanted despite consequence fall away, and Wesley gasps, sucking
in air desperately as he drops to his knees, entire body shaking like he’d just
escaped death. He steadies himself on Riker’s thighs, watching his own hands
tremble like they don’t belong to him, like they are alive on their own. He
presses his face into Riker’s crotch, inhaling the musky, sweat-smell of
arousal, the burn just beneath laundry detergent and cotton. He licks the
outline of it, the fabric rough under his tongue. Riker runs his fingers
through Wesley’s hair, mumbling things too far away to hear.
Hands still numb and tremulous, Wesley unbuttons Riker’s black uniform slacks,
pressing kisses to whatever skin he can reach, whatever skin he exposes. When
he frees Riker’s erection entirely it hangs in front of him for a loaded
moment, enormous and dusky red and glistening, skin so smooth and satin soft
over all that thick, steel power. Wesley licks his lips, thinking of the
countless other times his younger self thought it was too big to fit inside of
his mouth, and proves that self wrong, sliding down the length of Rikers cock
until his lips are buried in dark brown curls.
“God, you’re beautiful,” Riker mumbles, hand a surprisingly gentle weight
against the back of Wesley’s neck. “Suck on me, Wes. Give me that pretty
mouth.”
Wesley reaches into his own pants, and grips his hard, wanting, white-hot cock,
drunk and drowned with the scent of Riker.
He knows Riker loves when he’s hungry for it, when he closes his eyes and gets
lost to sucking, head falling into the easy rhythm, tongue lashing and lapping,
involuntary groans vibrating around the crown of Riker’s dick, in the salty
indentation on the underside. So that’s what he does. He jerks himself, he bobs
up and down; he sucks in hard so his cheeks hollow and Riker’s thick,
impossibly strong legs shudder and falter on either side of him like static on
a security camera. The heat in Wesley’s stomach builds, because he’sdoing this
to Riker, his youth, his diminutive frame, his seventeen year old baby’s mouth.
Rendering this great man unstable and silent.
Riker is already close, Wesley can tell by the spasms of flesh, the twitching,
the little pre-bursts of salty liquid he swallows down instinctively. Riker is
saying the first syllable of his name over and over again like a prayer, thee
letters total, three letters less than ensign.
It’s as this moment when Wesley has the terrible, long-fought thought I
shouldn’t be doing this. His eyes fly open, his brow furrows, and he tightens
his hand on the throbbing length of his own dick, wanting to overcome his mind
with blind pleasure so he can;t second guess himself anymore.
He hates thinking this, because it is useless. He is doing it. All the things
it has ruined, his normal future of first dates and first kisses and first,
graceless, terrible fucks, are pointless to mourn because they’re already gone.
He is doing this, as he has been, and it has already happened. He wants to do
it, authentically. Wether or not he wants to because he taught himself to is
irrelevant, he still wants to. It is his reality. It’s Riker he thinks of when
he wonders about love, when he touches himself in the shower and under the
sheets. It’s Riker who taught him everything he knows, it’s Riker whose closest
to being his father, Riker who taught him to kiss, to suck cock, to relax so he
can be pushed inside of. He blocks out the sun, and its been years since Wesley
saw the sun. It’s Riker. No one else.
He remembers the one, terrifying time Riker told him, after making Wesley come
three times across his lap with his fingers deep in his ass without touching
his dick at all, we shouldn’t be doing this. Wesley remembers the fierce panic,
the lost feeling swelling in his young chest like emptiness. You can’t say
that, you’re the grown up! He’d thought. You’re the dad. I can be scared, I can
wonder if this is right, if I’m sick, if something’s wrong with me. But you
can’t. You have to be sure. If you aren’t sure, how can I be anything?
No was what he did say to Riker instead of the rush of childish terror, laying
across thick legs in a puddle of his own come. There must have been enough
dismay in his voice to scare Riker, because he never brought it up again.
Wesley remembers the blue in his eyes, the wideness of it, sky-huge and
reflecting the ocean, staining everything around it the same scared, helpless
color.
Wesley comes in his pants, erupting over his own palm while Riker holds his
head in place, and thrusts two deep, hungry thrusts and chokes his throat full
of seed. The whole of the sky, the whole of the ocean, and Wesley feels like
one single grain of sand.
He doesn’t think of all the girls whose chests he will feel with fumbling,
idiot hands which long for vastness, for the stone-hard expanse of muscle, for
hair to form a fist in. He doesn’t think of all the clumsy kisses he will fake
ignorance through, all while knowing how to use his tongue, how to flick it
against the roof of a mouth, how to lay still while someone crushes you with
the scratch of a beard, the sureness of teeth. He doesn’t think of love, and
how he does not know what it is, because love is not something genius knows,
something it only feigns knowing so convincingly that great men believe in it,
and pour the enormity of themselves into too-tight receptacles until they
shatter to bits.
Wesley allows himself to be hauled to his feet, his lips to be kissed, his hair
to be worried, his shoulders to be gripped with shattering force. He doesn’t
think of his lungs slowly dying, their contractions without air. He only thinks
of Riker, and allows himself to be consumed, one grain of sand at the bottom of
the sea, a star flickering against the infinity of space and its devouring
adoration.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
